Sick days for me are always a double edged sword. The first half is great. A celebration of the simple life, like sleeping after 7:30, not wearing a suit, and existing without the aide of fluorescent lights. That is until about 2 p.m. At least for me.

The problem with me taking a sick day is that no matter how sick I feel, I never quite believe that I deserve to sit back and enjoy, as best I can, the day off.

This morning, after roughly 34 minutes of sleep the night before, I decided to stay home and not infect my office with my cold and, who knows, maybe get some sleep. Did the latter happen? Not so much. The former though was “mission accomplished.” The first chunk of the day went by well. Breakfast at my desk. Tony Kornheiser show. No tie. I even left and got a sandwich. And then it all plummeted down hill rapidly.

Upon leaving I realized that I was tasting too much of the good life. So when I returned home, I placed my sandwich on the counter and began laundry load number 1. When that was done in the wash, I decided to change the sheets on the bed. And wash all the blankets. And the comforter. And remake the bed. After folding a full dark load.

The point of this enthralling story is that I’m incapable of being idle. I fear that if I ever had to go on bedrest for a medical condition, I’d lay for a half hour, then get up when no one was looking and fix a delicious cornish game hen. If I broke my leg, I’d go for a 2 mile hop. And try to break a 6 minute mile. And it’s not even that I’m really all that ambitious. In my mind, I’m not ambitious at all. I’m just incredibly guilt-ridden. If everyone I work with is working, and Amanda is working, and the neighbor down the hall is working, then come hell or highwater, I’m going to work in whatever way I can. Even if that’s changing bedsheets. And even if by the time Amanda comes home, I have a fever.